So Raise Your Glass
by AriesTaurus
Summary: He doesn't know if he's maudlin, nostalgic or… delusional or just maybe crazy. Maybe he's finally losing it. Maybe he's got PTSD or something because when did he ever start seeing ghosts?


A tag for 3.15. Introspection is something I really like writing but haven't really done in this fandom. I have more coming but I hope you like this.

Le me know, yeah?

* * *

He sits there, staring at his beer, or rather through it, eyes lost in memories. He doesn't know if he's maudlin, nostalgic or… delusional or just maybe crazy. Maybe he's finally losing it. Maybe he's got PTSD or something because, hell, when did he ever start seeing ghosts? he wonders as he absently rolls the engraved bullet between his fingers, the lettering's rough edges catching on the calluses of his hands.

The knock on the door doesn't really surprise him. He heard the Camaro pull into the driveway and ever since his mother moved in, Danny knocks.

"S'open," he calls out, halfway between quiet and resigned.

"Hey," Danny says, plopping on the couch beside him.

"Hey. Beer's in the fridge."

"I know," Danny says, grabbing the bottle sitting on the table and taking a swig. Steve cocks an eyebrow at him but doesn't speak. Somehow, he doesn't have words tonight.

"Bleah," Danny grimaces as he drops the beer back onto the table. "How long's that been sitting there? It's warmer than horse piss."

"A while," he answers, because he has to say _something._ It takes some time, maybe a minute before Danny sucks in a breath and speaks.

"Okay! So. Fine. Yeah. I was worried. About you, I mean. Concerned. Maybe. About you getting shot. Or killed. Just so you know."

"I know. I was kind of worried a bit too," he murmurs absently, still rolling the bullet between his fingers, feeling the etched letters imprint on his skin.

"Can I ask you something?" Danny says.

"Sure," he replies, not really paying attention.

"What is it with you and February?"

That stops him short, pulls him away from his father shaking his hand, telling him he's proud, pulling him back from that case, twenty years ago, three weeks before his mother was… killed. He frowns and looks at Danny.

"What's with… What?"

"You. February. You two have a weird relationship or something?"

"_What?_"

"Is it about you getting older? A prelude to your upcoming birthday or just, I dunno, a weird cosmic thing?"

"Danny, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Two years ago. You passing yourself off as Rambo to protect a witness. Last year? Two words, my friend: North Korea. And today?" Danny grabs his hand and rips the gold cylinder out of his hand, "A bullet with your name on it? C'mon. I think Karma's trying to tell you something, buddy."

Steve sighs and lets his eyes go distant again. "I don't know, Danny," he says wearily. He's oh, so tired, filled with a deep sense of loss that goes deeper than losing old friends. It feels like… grief. But then, it also feels like closure, like balm on an old wound.

"Well, you gotta figure it out babe because next year? February comes, I'm taking a vacation. Just so you know."

Somehow, that draws a smile out of him, a low chuckle, even.

"What, you think this is a joke? I'm serious babe. February 1st, I'm gone. I'd rather face winter in Jersey."

Steve tries to answer but the chuckle turns into laughter and that turns into more gales of it and he's helpless to control it. Before he knows what's happening, he's overwhelmed, shoulders shaking with hysterics.

Danny looks at him like he's lost his mind and maybe he has. Je just laughs harder and harder, laughing so hard he can barely breathe, his abdominal muscles aching from the strain. He feels wetness fill his eyes and slip down his cheeks and before he knows what's happening, he's half-laughing, half crying.

"Whoa, whoa, what's going on with you buddy? You cracking up on me? What's this, huh? Shock? Adrenaline crash? Talk to me babe. What's going on?"

Only he can't answer because he's still caught in the throes of… whatever this is. Hysteria. Shock. Emotional overload. Hell if he knows or if he can stop it.

He leans forward and buries his face in his hands, trying to find a shred of control. He isn't sure if he's really crying, grieving for friends and family lost, time slipped away he can never get back or if it's just incredible relief at still being alive, at having a bullet with his name on it in his hand instead of his heart.

"Great. He's finally lost it. What am I supposed to do, huh?"

Steve somehow manages to take a breath and get some control over the hilarity, enough to give Danny a look.

"Oh! A Face! He can still hear. So you haven't _completely_ lost it then."

"No," he says, out of breath, the helpless laughter dying down, leaving him weary and exhausted, both physically and mentally. "I haven't. Just…" he breathes out, half laugh, half sob, "Hell of a day."

Danny sobers some. "Yeah. Hell of a day. You seem to have a lot of those, these days."

Steve doesn't answer, mainly because he doesn't know what to say. He just shakes his head and wipes his eyes and face.

Danny slaps his hands on his knees and gets up.

"Okay," he says in an exhale. "C'mon. You need to eat. I'm cooking you dinner."

Okay. That gets a reaction out of him. "Dinner. You. Cook. For me."

Danny, already halfway into the kitchen door, a grocery bag he somehow missed clutched in his left hand, turns to him. "Very coherent of you, Steven. Very Yoda-like. And yes, I can cook. Just you watch."

And so he does and lo and behold, twenty minutes later, he's devouring a huge plate of Spaghettini Carbonara; perfectly cooked _al dente _pasta enveloped in eggs and melted _Parmigiano reggiano_ and cracked black pepper and a hearty sprinkling of crunchy-chewy-perfect crumbs of bacon.

God, it's _divine_.

"I know it's not your healthy-low-fat-good-for-you kind of meal but you gotta admit, it's pretty good, even if I had to downgrade the pancetta to bacon," Danny says with his mouth full. "The Reggiano is irreplaceable though but that's easier to find," he adds once he swallows.

"It's awesome, man," Steve agrees around his own mouthful.

"Comfort food," Danny explains, waving his wine glass towards Steve's. "Salute."

"Salud." He takes a sip of the Sangiovese Danny brought, letting it flood his mouth before swallowing. The red wine blends perfectly with the pasta, better than he would ever have believed and Danny's right, this meal is comfort, through and through. Who'd have thought?

"I owe you an apology," he says.

"It's Salute," Danny says, emphasizing the t. "Salud is Spanish. And why? For acting like a lunatic in the face of a deranged sniper shooting bullets with your name on them?

"No. For not believing in your cooking skills."

Danny flashes a smile. "What, you think Rachel only agreed to marry be because of my looks? I'm half Italian, babe. My mother would disown me if I didn't know how to cook."

Steve isn't sure Danny's being self-deprecating, serious or sarcastic with that comment about Rachel so he lets it slide. "Yeah? So what else can you do? I mean besides the dishes?"

"What? No my friend; he who cooks does not do dishes, he who eats does dishes. Everyone knows that's the rule."

"Everyone knows that huh? I've never heard of that rule in my life. Besides, you're dodging the question which tells me this is the only thing you can cook."

Danny points at him with his fork, eyebrows high, full of challenge. "Those be fighting words, McGarrett."

"Yeah, maybe but I'm still not hearing names."

"Names. He wants names. I'll give you names. Lasagna, cannoli, chicken parm, amongst others. You want more?"

"What I want is _proof_," he says.

"Yeah well don't think you've managed to change the subject. You're still doing the dishes."

They go back and forth for a while, until the food's gone and there's all but air left in the second bottle of wine. They moved to the beach two glasses ago and it's full night, stars spreading across the black sky to be swallowed by the ocean, miles and miles away. It's quiet, the tide low, small waves lapping gently at the edge of the beach.

They ran out of words some time ago but the silence felt good, until now.

Now, the words he didn't have earlier are burning his tongue.

"Until today, I wasn't sure he was ever really proud of me," Steve says suddenly, quietly, swirling the last few sips of Sangiovese around his glass.

"Who, your dad?"

"Yeah."

"So what changed?"

He shrugs and exhales through his nose. He won't tell Danny what he saw because Danny would never believe him and he already thinks he's crazy as it is. Besides, he's not sure it was real either, that he is in fact not crazy and that it's not all in his head. All he knows is that something in him has changed and despite the day's grief, he's feeling a sort of inner peace he hasn't felt since… Since before all of this started, before his mother disappeared and his life was so hopelessly changed.

"I dunno, I just… Know, now. Somehow, I know he's watching me, somewhere, and I know he's proud."

"To John McGarrett and to a father's pride in his son" Danny says, raising his glass, his tone respectful and serious.

He stays silent, raising his glass to his lips. If nothing else, he'll drink to that.

Fin.


End file.
